


Unhappy in its Own Way

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Made families are the best, Ms Lemon is a good friend, Slash, Unwanted Sexual Advances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 19:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: Hastings's sister visits, and disrupts his happy home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I started writing this after wondering what would happen if one of Hastings' family members turned up one day. It turned into something bigger and more serious than I had anticipated. Then I let it set for six years during which I got a job, moved to a new state, bought a Mac, adopted a dog, lost a job, got a new job, moved 1000 miles away to another state, and lost my dog to cancer. So my apologies for not finishing this before now. I'm concerned that the tone changes at some point, but I'm not sure if I'm being too sensitive. It has been a while since I have written anything.
> 
> Note 2: Great thanks goes to Nemo_neminem (back in the good old days of LiveJournal) for beta reading my French.
> 
> Note 3: Quote is from Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_. "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

Poirot and I had settled into a domestic routine which pleased us both. In the mornings we would start the day with some bracing love making, followed by a shower, breakfast, and newspapers. We would investigate any cases that came Poirot's way. If there were no cases, Poirot would engage in one of his mentally engaging hobbies while I visited my club or took Freddie for a walk. In the evening, we read or played a game, and talked over the day's events. I was blissfully happy, and I can say with confidence that Poirot took great pleasure in our married life.

Our domestic joy was disrupted in the autumn by the arrival of my sister, Gladys. She was my eldest sister, older than me by nearly three years. She had been my tormenter in our youth, and as adults we rarely spoke to each other. Her only comments to me after I returned home briefly from the Somme were to comment that I had not lost my leg and then to ask me if I were turning tail like a coward. My youngest sister, Betsy, was a shy girl; we were on good terms but nevertheless rarely spoke. She wished to be as far away from Gladys and other members of our family as possible; I could not fault her for this reaction.

On that day I was contenting myself with tossing a ball gently across the carpet and watching Freddie scurry over to retrieve it. We would then tussle for the ball, which I think Freddie preferred to running for the ball. He could be quite lazy. Poirot was studiously ignoring our activities, although on occasion I would look over to see him smiling at us.

There was a knock on the door, and Ms. Lemon went to answer it. I was seated on the floor, and so I could not see immediately who was there. I heard Ms. Lemon say, "Of course," and I started to rise.

"Captain-" Ms. Lemon started to introduce our guest, but my sister brushed forward, and said, "Arthur!"

I am ashamed to admit that I jumped a bit at her loud voice and presence. "Hello, Gladys," I said, embarrassed by her manners.

I introduced her to Poirot and Ms. Lemon. My sister had the air of someone who was only permitting this because it had to be done. Ms. Lemon, I could see, had taken an immediate dislike to Gladys. Poirot looked a bit confused. My sister was a formidable woman – tall, beautiful, and domineering.

"Mr. Poirot," my sister said, her expression one of distasteful puzzlement. "My brother has told me all about you."

"Indeed, _madame_?"

"Yes," she said, drawing out the word so that it lasted a few seconds more than necessary. She then turned to me, and said, "Arthur, I want to speak with you. Take me to lunch."

"Oh, uh, of course," I said, glancing at Poirot. "Of course, I would like to, but I have luncheon plans already."

"Plans? With whom?"

"With Poirot."

"I'm sure Mr. Poirot won't mind, if you change them. I hardly ever see you."

"Er, well, yes. That is true."

"If you need to change, I don't mind. We can stop off at your flat first."

"I live here now, Gladys."

"What? Again?"

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. "Yes, I sent you a letter."

Fortunately Gladys held back whatever she wished to say on the matter. One does not argue in front of others, nor does one insult a person in his own house.

"I do not mind at all, Hastings," Poirot interjected. "If it has been so long since you've seen your sister, then you should have lunch with her."

I was not sure whether I wished to thank Poirot or strangle him for putting me into this situation.

"Thank you, Poirot."

Freddie waddled toward my sister, eager to meet this new person. My sister looked down at him, and said, "What's that?"

"This is Freddie," I replied. "My dog." I still was not sure Poirot's exact feelings regarding Freddie other than that he tolerated Freddie's presence because of me. Regardless, I did not wish to give my sister further suspicions of our true domestic situation by referring to Freddie as 'our dog.'

"I don't like dogs," my sister declared. "I'm allergic to them."

Ms. Lemon harrumphed, and left the room. I could see from Poirot's expression that he was remembering the story from what I had told him when Freddie first arrived and what my sister was saying now.

"I don't know why you'd want one," she continued. "Dirty animals."

Freddie, perhaps sensing my sister's dislike, sat down at my feet and growled. "Now, Freddie," I said, bending down to pet him. "I'm sure she didn't mean it. She's just tired from her trip." I patted him on the head, and then righted myself. "Shall we go?" I said, not intending to change. I motioned for her to go ahead of me. As I followed her, I looked back at Poirot, giving him an apologetic look.

Poirot shrugged in a particularly Gallic manner which meant that he was upset but there was nothing either of us could do about it.

 

By unspoken agreement my sister and I spoke of trifling matters as we walked to the restaurant. She waited until our plates were served before discuss anything of consequence. I would have waited until after the meal to bring up any emotional subjects.

"Why are you still living with Poirot? I thought you had your own flat."

"I had my own flat, but since my estate in the Argentine is doing so well, I spend a lot of time there. It was a waste of money to maintain an empty flat here." In fact, I spent very little time in the Argentine nowadays; I did not wish to leave Poirot, and he disliked traveling by ship immensely.

"You have money then?" she asked. "You're not penniless like you were."

"That was a long time ago," I replied sharply, well aware that she had not sought to assist me in any way after the war and our father's death.

"Yes," she replied, stabbing at her plate with her fork. "I merely ask because you haven't married yet."

I wanted to tell her that I was married, but of course I could not. "I do not wish to marry," I replied, pushing the peas around my plate.

"Why not?" she asked, staring at me.

"I haven't found someone whom I wish to marry," I replied, silently apologizing to Poirot for my lie. I was uncomfortable treating him as if he were merely a friend. I wanted to shout to the world that I loved him.

Gladys looked at me critically, and said, "You are getting old, Arthur."

"Steady on," I said, taken aback by her words. "So are you," I replied, a bit ungraciously.

"But I've got a husband," she said.

"So have I," I thought to myself. "And he's a damn sight better than yours."

Out loud I said, "And I have all I want for myself: excitement, adventure, close friends."

Gladys looked uncomfortable, but I was unsure what I had said to distress her. She replied, "People talk, Arthur."

"Do they?" I said, and I knew what she was going to say next. Poirot and I have been very careful, but there are those who will talk regardless of the evidence.

"Yes," she replied, her voice firm – as if she were speaking to a five-year-old. "You are well into your middle years, unmarried, and living with that… foreigner."

"That foreigner is a celebrated detective, who works with the police on a daily basis. He is certainly above suspicion," I said, reprimanding her for her snobbishness. She had never understood my desire to travel or my fondness for strange places and people; however, as long as she did not learn exactly how fond I was of the strangest man of them all we would be safe.

"People still talk," she hissed, setting her fork down sharply against the plate. I could feel the people next to us cringe at the sound.

"I don't care," I replied calmly.

"You were always such a sensitive lad," she continued as if I had not spoken. "You would get so upset sometimes by such little things."

"Losing a dog is not a little thing," I replied, hating the embarrassed blush that rose in my cheeks at her words. "And I lost much of that sensitivity when I was sent to school."

"Not all of it," she replied. "I remember when my John returned from the war. He was so brave and stalwart – a good soldier." Yes, her John, a man now so deep into his cups that I wondered if he ever remembered what sobriety felt like.

"Why are you here?" I asked, putting down my knife and fork. I was unable to eat anything more, and I no longer wished to pretend that I had an appetite. This plain meal was a far cry from the exotic fare that Poirot was going to treat me to this afternoon. "Is it just to harangue me about getting married?"

Gladys' expression mirrored my father's when he was about to tell me what a disappointment he found me. However, she said, "I am going to a shooting party this weekend, and I want you to come with me."

"Why?" I asked. It was obvious that she did not wish to spend time with me because we enjoyed each other's company.

"I have a friend, Margo. She's unmarried, and needs a husband."

I interrupted her. "Absolutely not," I cried, more loudly than perhaps was necessary. The couples closest to us were trying not to show their annoyance. I bent toward her, and replied softly, "I am not meeting one of your horrid girlfriends."

"Horrid? How dare you!" she said, hissing at me again.

The waiter appeared, perhaps wanting to rescue the china before one of us lost our temper. Without looking at the ticket, I handed him some notes and stood. I heard her call my name as I left.

 

I took a long walk before returning to the flat. I had hoped that Gladys would not be there, and I sighed in relief when I saw that she was not.

Freddie was seated on the floor next to Poirot's desk; they seemed to be in the middle of a staring contest. Poirot looked up as I entered, and then looked past me. "I left her at the restaurant," I said, answering his unasked question.

I laughed softly at his expression, which was one of relief that she was not present and disapproval at my rudeness. "Your sister is a formidable woman," he said tactfully.

"She's a brutal bully," I replied, sitting in the chair in front of Poirot's desk. Freddie trotted out to greet me, and I picked him up. I was surprised to find that my hands were shaking.

"You are not usually so ungracious to _les femmes_ ," Poirot said, removing his pince-nez. "What has distressed you?"

"Only when one of _les femmes_ is my sister. She wants me to get married, Poirot," I replied. "She says I'm getting old."

Rather than angry, Poirot looked amused. "Why should this upset you, _mon chou_?" he asked. "She cannot force you to marry."

"No, but she won't let that stop her. She has this horrid girlfriend she wants me to meet." Freddie curled up in my lap, and returned to sleep. I sighed softly as I petted his long back. "I wanted to tell her how much I loved you," I said plaintively.

Poirot's eyes softened, and I could see his delight at my words. "I know, my friend, but you can say nothing."

"I know," I replied.

Poirot stood up, and came to my side. His strong hand rested on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry about lunch," I said sadly, briefly resting my cheek against his hand. "I was quite looking forward to it."

Poirot kissed me gently, and I was relieved that he was no longer upset. "We can go another day," Poirot replied, his other hand cupping my chin. "You can make it up to me later, yes?"

I laughed softly. "I'll make it up to you now, if you like."

Poirot tutted, shaking his head in amusement. "Later, _mon cher_ Hastings. Lord Rothcard is coming to see me on a matter of some delicacy."

I sighed, uninterested in his lordship's visit. "Let's go away this weekend," I said as soon as the idea came to me. "Just for a few days."

Poirot's head tilted slightly as he looked at me, the question obvious. "We haven't been alone – just the two of us – since the wedding."

"You cannot run away from your sister, Hastings," he said gently.

"I'm not running away," I replied, feeling the sting of his words perhaps a bit more than I might have had I not just been subjected to so many unpleasant memories by my sister. "I wish to spend some time with you alone."

"Calm yourself," Poirot said soothingly, his hand stroking my shoulder.

"I am not a coward," I replied.

"Your sulk is very pretty, Arthur, but it will not act as a distraction. You must settle this with your sister, first, and then we shall repair to the country."

I knew that when he said my first name, he meant business.

"I don't know if I can, Hercule."

"You are not alone, _mon cher_ ," Poirot said gently. "I shall assist you."

"Thank you," I replied, grateful beyond measure. So badly did I want to snuggle against him and forget the world that the need was like a pain in my chest. Poirot must have seen this need because he bent to kiss me again, this time most thoroughly.

"After his lordship has departed, Hastings," he promised.

I nodded, caressing his cheek with the back of my knuckles. "Please," I said softly, accepting his promise.

 

Perhaps suspecting that I might be upset after lunching with my sister, Ms. Lemon called to say that she had a "toothache" and needed to see her dentist immediately. Poirot gave her the rest of the day off.

Lord Rothcard's business had been commonplace and uninteresting, and I had spent most of his visit contemplating my own concerns. I could tell that Poirot also found the business unworthy of his time, but he promised that he would take care of the matter by tomorrow evening.

Once Lord Rothcard was gone, I flipped through the mail, and cringed at the sight of my sister's handwriting. I could tell from the broad downward strokes that she had been angry when she wrote it, and I did not anticipate with much eagerness what she had to say. Poirot return to the sitting room, and I dropped the letter back onto the pile. I would deal with her harsh words tomorrow.

I tried to smile as Poirot stood before me, but it faded at his solemn expression. He knew me too well to be deceived by a brave face. Poirot cupped my cheek tenderly with one of his strong hands, and I leaned into his touch, sighing softly as my eyes closed. We stayed that way for a few moments, just listening to the quiet in our rooms and the light noise outside.

His thumb brushed against my lower lip, and at this touch I opened my eyes. Poirot's expression was suffused with tender possessiveness, and I shivered at the sight. He kissed me gently, our arms slowly encircling each other until we were pressed close.

When we parted, Poirot took my hand and led me to our bedroom. It was still daylight – the middle of the afternoon, in fact – and I felt decadent abandoning the day in favor of passion. Unlike much of our time together, we spoke very little as we removed each other's clothes. The occasional murmur of love gave way to exploratory kisses and caresses. A stroke of my hand down Poirot's side made him purr like a cat, while the lightest touch of Poirot's lips to my inner wrist made me shiver with delight.

It was just cool enough in our room to make a blanket unnecessary but not uncomfortable. I enjoyed these times when my view was unhampered by cloth. I watched Poirot's slightly darker hand stroke my chest, and I was pleased by the contrast. I gazed at his hand until I realized what had caught his attention.

The scar on my side was still visible, although much less so than my war wound thanks to the surgeon and modern medical techniques. Poirot's fingers rested against it, and for a moment I only heard the sound of the gun and Poirot's worried voice.

I felt it necessary to preserve the unusual quiet, and so rather than speak I distracted him with a kiss. I felt triumph as he relaxed in my arms and resumed his attentions, hands trailing down to my back and then up my thighs. I spread my legs eagerly, letting him settle between them. We rocked together gently, letting the pleasure build between us.

Our kisses were calm and deep; I had no desire for wildness now, only reaffirmation. Poirot's rocking became more forceful, and I rested a hand on his backside, encouraging him further. The only sounds in the room were of the slight movement of the bed and our labored breaths. Even our mutual completion created no more than soft gasps.

When Hercule Poirot held me in his arms, I knew that nothing would rend us apart.

 

We did not speak of my sister again until the following morning. Poirot was on the telephone with Inspector Japp; they were discussing Lord Rothcard. I took a deep breath, and then opened my sister's letter. The hotel letterhead told me where she was staying, and I reluctantly continued to read.

The message was brief and filled me with dread. "If you do not at least show yourself this weekend, I will be forced to ask for further clarification of your relationship with a certain person." She then wrote the address for the shooting party, and when I should arrive.

I realized that I no longer heard Poirot's voice, and turned my attention from the letter. Poirot was looking at me, his expression worried.

"What has caused your sudden paleness?"

"My sister has written me," I replied. I stood up, and handed him the letter. As he read, I shoved my hands into my pockets, hating this feeling of helplessness.

"Perhaps, _mon ami_ , you should indulge your sister in this matter.”

My confusion must have been plain on my face because Poirot continued, “Your sister is very persistent, yes? She will not forget this opportunity or that you refused her. Instead, you should show her that you are unable to fall in love with this lady.”

I was reluctant to follow his advice. “I would rather not, Poirot. What if her friend wants to marry me? What if she’s as desperate as my sister?”

“She cannot force you to marry, Hastings.”

“I know,” I replied, uneasy. I hesitated, and then decided to reveal what else bothered me about Poirot’s idea. “I do not wish to lie to anyone.”

Poirot tilted his head in question as he looked at me. I added, “It would be difficult for me to reveal that my affections are already engaged but not to reveal who has engaged them. I don’t wish to pretend that there is no one who…” I blushed, but continued, “who holds my heart.”

Poirot smiled, and said, “Your romanticism and honesty are appreciated, even when they do not aid my plans.”

At that moment, Ms. Lemon entered the flat. Poirot called to her before she took up residence in her office, however, and she looked expectantly at Poirot when she stood before us. “Good morning, Mr. Poirot, Captain Hastings.”

We both said our good mornings, and then Poirot said, “Ms. Lemon, I have a special request of you.”

“Yes?” she asked, glancing curiously at me.

“You recall, no doubt, that the good captain’s sister arrived yesterday?” At Ms. Lemon’s nod, he said, “She has a scheme, the result of which would be the marriage of Hastings to a friend of hers.”

“Oh, does she?” Ms. Lemon said, her voice stern and disapproving.

“Yes,” I said, wishing that I could defend my sister but not having a reason to do so. “She made several insinuations about my situation.”

“Tell her to push off then,” Ms. Lemon replied.

“As emotionally satisfying as that may seem, Ms. Lemon,” Poirot said, “we wish to ensure that the good captain's sister cannot either spread rumors or return with another young lady.”

Ms. Lemon nodded, and said, “That certainly makes sense, Mr. Poirot. How can I assist you?”

Poirot’s eyes held an impish sparkle that I did not like, and suddenly I realized what Poirot was about to suggest. Poirot gave her a humble look, and said, “Ms. Lemon, would you-“

“No,” she replied firmly. “Whatever you are thinking, think it no further.”

“But Ms. Lemon-“

“No, I refuse to playact as Captain Hastings’ girlfriend.”

I blushed at the idea. Just the thought! Ms. Lemon was like a sister to me, and she was Poirot’s secretary.

“But I’m already married to you,” I replied, scandalized. “I couldn’t pretend to love another.”

Poirot sighed, and looked between the two of us. Ms. Lemon had crossed her arms, and was looking at him fiercely. Poirot was obviously considering which of us to confront first and how best to do so. Eventually he turned to Ms. Lemon and said, “I trust you, Ms. Lemon.”

Ms. Lemon was obviously not expecting to hear those words, and neither was I. Poirot continued, “I could not trust another with my dear Hastings here, but I know you would act the part and act it well. You understand what this means to us, do you not?”

The thought of being forced from Poirot’s side made me shiver, and I felt stricken with fear. I had hoped that I revealed nothing of my fear, but I must have because Ms. Lemon’s expression softened as she looked at me.

“Very well, Mr. Poirot, but I shall want a holiday after this.”

“ _Certainement_. That will do nicely as I have promised Hastings a holiday in the country. Would two weeks be sufficient?”

I was surprised by his generosity, and so was Ms. Lemon. “That would suffice,” she replied.

 

We left London in my car, which we thought would be more useful if something were to go wrong at the shooting party. Ms. Lemon – as befit my fiancée – rode in the seat next to me, and Poirot was unhappily stuffed in the back seat.

We arrived at the house, and the servants assisted us with our luggage. My sister stormed out of the house, and stopped when she saw the three of us.

“Gladys,” I said, taking Ms. Lemon’s arm in my own. “I would like you to meet my fiancée, Felicity Lemon.”

Inwardly I cringed, uncomfortable with referring to Poirot’s secretary by her first name. Ms. Lemon, to her credit, reacted with no more than a smile and hugged my arm closer.

“What?” my sister said, her eyes widening. 

"We're engaged to be married," Ms. Lemon said in such a way which suggested that she would have said something rude in its place had others not been present.

Gladys gapped for a moment, and then said, "Why didn't you tell me this, Arthur?"

"We hadn't yet announced our engagement, and I didn't wish to say anything without speaking to Felicity first," I replied.

My sister's eyes moved downward to where Poirot stood. "And what gives us the pleasure of your company, M. Poirot?"

Poirot raised his hat slightly, and said, "I am their chaperone, madame."

"Chaperone?" My sister asked.

The three of us merely smiled at her words.

"Come along, darling," I said, tugging at Ms. Lemon's arm, wanting to be well away from my sister when she started to rage.

"All right, dear," Ms. Lemon replied, tugging back sharply on my arm.

We entered the foyer in time to see another member of the shooting party descending the stairs. She was in her early 30's, tall and blonde, and an absolute stunner. She was certainly beautiful, and I might have once been interested in her if I had not fallen so fully for Poirot.

"Margo," my sister said through gritted teeth, "this is my brother, Arthur. Arthur, this is Ms. Margo Fields."

"Pleased to meet you," Ms. Fields replied, fluttering her eyelashes at me.

"Likewise," I said, and hurried on before she could speak again. "This is my fiancée, Felicity Lemon."

Ms. Fields' eyes widened, and she looked shocked. I almost swore that I saw fear in her eyes before she said, "Oh, your sister didn't tell me that you had a fiancée."

"That's because we had been keeping it a secret," Ms. Lemon said in the same no nonsense voice she uses on obstreperous clients.

The three women were eyeing each other in a way that made me nervous. I was suddenly grateful that it was Ms. Lemon – and not some other who might cower away – who was saving me from my sister's machinations. Ms. Lemon could hold her own in a confrontation.

Poirot interjected, "We should unpack our things and settle in before dinner."

"Of course," Ms. Fields said, stepping aside to let us ascend the stairway. As I passed, she rested her hand briefly on my arm, and said, "I shall see you later, captain."

"Yes, quite," I said.

Ms. Lemon glared at the woman. My sister had a smug, determined look on her face. Poirot's expression told me that he was offended.

I sighed. This was not going to be a relaxing weekend.


	2. Chapter 2

Our rooms were ready due to Poirot prodding me to write ahead to our host – a gentleman with whom Poirot was already acquainted. Lord Heyer had been a recipient of Poirot's assistance during the early days of Poirot's residency in London, and therefore was only too happy to have Poirot over for the shooting party.

Poirot and I had agreed that we would not attempt any intimacy whilst we stayed at the house because we did not wish to court danger or give my sister more reason to suspect us. The temptation, however, would be great because Poirot and I had been assigned to rooms with an adjourning door so that we would not have to enter the hall in order to enter one another's rooms.

I arranged my clothes and toiletries, and then prepared for dinner. When I heard the gong, I departed for the dining room. Thankfully I spied Ms. Lemon waiting for me and so I was able to escort her rather than my sister or Ms. Fields. Poirot followed behind us, and I felt uncomfortable holding Ms. Lemon so close, especially in the presence of my spouse.

Ms. Lemon and I were seated next to each other. Ms. Fields was seated one away from my sister with my sister's husband, John, separating them. Ms. Fields would occasionally glance at me in what I would describe as desperate flirtation, which I would have felt uncomfortable experiencing even if I were not already married to another. Poirot was seated near Lord Heyer, and I was therefore unable to converse with him or take comfort in surreptitious glances.

I tried to engage in conversation with the young lady named Sarah who was seated to my left. She was quiet and studious, and I knew very little about her topic of choice, modern Russian poetry. Ms. Lemon and I talked mainly about stocks and savings. We stopped when I heard our host's wife say, "Not that story again, Jonathon."

Lord Heyer laughed, and replied, "But Roberta, Mr. Poirot here is a detective extraordinaire. If anyone can solve the mystery, he can."

Poirot bowed slightly, his face aglow as it is whenever he receives praise. I fought not to roll my eyes, and Ms. Lemon smiled into her napkin.

"If you will please, Lord Heyer, tell to me the story. I must have the facts."

Lord Heyer nodded, and said, "After dinner. The dining room table is no place for such a sordid tale."

As most everyone's attention was on Poirot and Lord Heyer, Ms. Field tried to catch my eye again. I looked down, fiddling with the napkin in my lap. I heard Ms. Lemon give a short, angry snort.

I then felt her hand on my chin, directing me to look up. I realized that we were supposed to play the affianced couple, but I found it quite difficult. Ms. Lemon gave me a sympathetic look, and then crossed her eyes.

We both laughed, and when I next looked back at Ms. Field, she was studiously looking away. I looked at Ms. Lemon gratefully, and I realized that she had created an atmosphere of intimacy but in such a way that did not make me uncomfortable. It was the sort of relationship we enjoyed back in London. I decided that I would concentrate on our friendship and recreate those feelings of trust rather than try to behave as I would toward Poirot, whom I loved dearly.

My sister's husband, John, was silent throughout most of the meal. When I asked him about his time in India, he shrugged off my questions with a murmur of "damned hot" and a liberal splash of whiskey down his throat.

After dinner the ladies departed, and I could almost seen Ms. Lemon sharpening her claws. I retreated to Poirot, and as the gentlemen gathered for drinks, we heard Lord Heyer discuss the facts, which were nothing more than a melodramatic ghost story. Poirot was polite, but his lack of interest was obvious to me. He smiled, though, at Lord Heyer and said that he would look into the matter.

 

When we were about to join the ladies for the evening's entertainment, I considered suggesting that Poirot and I take a walk in the gardens. Before I could, however, my sister interrupted us. She took my arm in a tight grip and dragged me to a corner.

"Your fiancée is horrible!" she cried.

"Felicity?" I said, almost calling her 'Ms. Lemon' instead. "What do you mean?"

"She's been quite rude to Margo."

"Felicity is never rude without reason," I replied.

Gladys' eyes flashed with anger, and she said, "Are you blaming my friend?"

"No," I replied, shrugging off her arm. "I don't even know what happened. I am merely saying that rudeness is unlike Felicity."

"Well-" Poirot rounded the corner, and stopped to watch us. My sister huffed very softly, but she dared not continue her words in front of another. Instead she said, "You will speak to her."

"Of course," I said, puzzled.

She turned on her heal, and stomped away, shooting a look of barely contained fury towards Poirot.

Poirot's brows rose slightly, but otherwise he betrayed no reaction. He stepped closer, and said, "Perhaps you should find Ms. Lemon, and ask her what happened."

I did not have to search for her because she turned the corner and found us. "May I have a word with you, Ca- Arthur?"

"Of course," I said. I glanced at Poirot, who raised a hand, indicating that he would stay behind.

Once we were alone in the library, Ms. Lemon said, "Captain Hastings, your sister is a very trying woman." I nodded, and she continued, "It started out with the usual petty feminine barbs, but then she grew very rude."

"Rude? What did she say?"

"She said that you should marry a younger woman, one who could bear children for you."

I considered the person whom I had already married: older than I and certainly unable to bear children. I said, "Surely… there isn't an age limit, is there?"

I must have looked confused and horribly out of my depth because Ms. Lemon's expression softened, and she said, "Society would say that I should have been married well before now."

"But you wouldn't have been able to be Poirot's secretary," I cried, disturbed by the very idea.

Ms. Lemon shook her head, but her expression was fond. "I prefer being Mr. Poirot's secretary, so don't you worry. It was just your sister's tone that I didn't like."

"What else did she say?"

"Other things," Ms. Lemon replied.

"Well, like what?"

Ms. Lemon paused, and then said, "She insinuated that I dyed my hair."

"Do you?" I asked. At Ms. Lemon's glare, I added, "Poirot dyes his hair. He thinks I don't notice, but I do."

"There were some other things I'd rather not mention – things only ladies should know."

"Sounds dreadful," I replied.

Ms. Lemon's frown twisted into a reluctant smile, and she said, "You are a good friend, captain."

"Thank you, Ms. Lemon," I replied, blushing slightly.

 

The next morning was grey and cold, and I awoke feeling groggy. I had woken several times during the night when my arms flopped around to search for my absent bedmate. I dressed for shooting, and went downstairs.

Poirot was looking glumly at his toast when I entered the room, but his expression brightened a little when he saw me. We did not have the chance to speak alone last night, and I hoped that we could do so later. I needed to talk with him, to take comfort in his presence.

Ms. Lemon and I went with the shooting party while Poirot begged off, saying that he did not wish to catch another cold. Ms. Lemon was an excellent shot after a few practice rounds, and my sister and her friend were on the other end of the field so we did not have to worry about them. I observed Ms. Lemon while we were shooting. I had always thought her to be a handsome woman, and other than that cad who took advantage of Ms. Lemon in an attempt to mislead Poirot, I had seen her receive no gentleman callers. I could not understand why because Ms. Lemon deserved a loving gentleman.

We returned in the afternoon in time for a late lunch. I asked where Poirot was, and the butler directed me to the upstairs library. I expected him to be reading, but instead he was staring into space, an air of sadness about him.

"Poirot?" I said softly.

"Hastings, you have returned," he said, turning to me. I smiled, and locked the door.

"Are we alone?" When Poirot nodded, I bent forward and placed a kiss on his lips. "I wish you had come outside with us. Ms. Lemon is a cracking good shot."

Poirot smiled slightly, and said, "The shooting, Hastings, it does not agree with me."

"No, and I wouldn't want you to catch another cold," I replied. I kissed him again, brushing my fingers against his cheek.

Poirot embraced me around the shoulders, and deepened the kiss. It was an awkward position, but I gladly suffered it.

"I missed you last night… and this morning," I murmured, kneeling in front of him.

" _Mais oui, mon ami_. I did not sleep well." Poirot kissed me again, slow and deep, his hand stroking my hair. I rested my hands on his thighs, stroking his skin through the cloth.

Eventually he rested his cheek against mine and said softly, "We must not continue."

I nodded, enjoying the intimate feel of his skin against mine. "We shall have to take a long holiday after this, Poirot. No interruptions."

Poirot nodded, and cupped my jaw as he pulled away. "Of course, Hastings. I have already made the reservations."

I smiled at him. "A quiet, secluded place?" I asked, recalling the abandonment we experienced during our honeymoon in a lonely little Belgian cottage.

I heard the change in Poirot's breath and saw the flush rise in his cheeks. "Both, my friend," he said, his husky-voiced promise making me shiver.

"Good," I murmured, kissing him one more time.

 

Dinner was an unpleasant affair. I was anxious to leave and resume my life with Poirot. Before we became lovers, I had been content to live with Poirot so near and yet untouchable, but now that I knew he could be touched – and that he wanted me as passionately – I loathed the return to that aching yearn.

I received a note from my sister asking me to meet her in one of the downstairs sitting rooms. I was suspicious about her motives, and I made mention of the note to Ms. Lemon, who promised to stay nearby.

When I arrived at the appointed time and place, I found not my sister but her friend, Margo Fields. She turned as I entered, and smiled at me.

"Ah," I said, startled. "My apologies for disturbing you. I was looking for my sister."

"She's not here," Ms. Fields said, smiling at me. "She will return in a few minutes."

"Um, yes, well, quite…"

"Come in," she said, patting the cushion next to her.

"I- I am fine here," I said, trying my best to smile at her without showing how nervous I was in her presence.

She smiled at me in the manner of a snake smiling at a rabbit, and stood. Perhaps once I might have admired her curves and the way the cloth of her fine silk gown rippled down her sides, but now all I felt was a need to escape.

"Would you like a drink?" I said, spying a brandy decanter. I made for it, but Ms. Fields grabbed my wrist.

"No, thank you, captain," she said. Before I could admonish her for her touch, she stepped closer and kissed me. Her lips had barely pressed against mine when I stepped back, colliding with the wall behind me.

"Ms. Fields, really, I must protest," I said, sliding out from under her arms.

"Why must you protest?" she said, coming closer to me.

I am already married, I wanted to shout at her, but I knew that I could not. Instead, I said, "I am engaged to be married," I said backing up with the intent of putting the couch between her and me.

"To that old maid?" she said. "You deserve better than her."

"Good lord!" I said, shocked by her words. "Felicity is not an old maid. She is a fine woman, and I love her dearly." I surprised myself with the surety of my words; I loved Ms. Lemon as much as a brother could love a sister. I certainly loved and trusted her more than Gladys.

Ms. Fields seemed to back down for a moment, and she said softly, "I am sorry to hear that." I relaxed at her words, pleased that my sincerity had convinced her not to pursue me any further.

But then Ms. Fields jumped on me, knocking me over the arm of the couch and onto the cushions. She then began kissing me in earnest. I tried to push her off, but she clung to me, kissing my cheek, lips, neck. I demanded that she get off of me, but her determination grew at my pleas. I felt the panic swell within me, and although I never wished to hurt a woman, I dreaded having to use my strength to force her off.

I heard a voice, and feared that Poirot would see me in such a compromising position. The shame of the thought had nearly convinced me to throw her off when I saw Ms. Lemon's sensibly manicured hand grab Ms. Fields' shoulder and knock her to the carpet. I sat up, and quickly moved off of the couch and away from them.

Ms. Lemon looked at me, and I could not recognize the emotion in her expression. I had never seen it before. She turned to Ms. Fields, who was still lying on the floor, and said, "Don't you dare touch him." Her voice was icy with rage and something else – a dead earnestness that made me shiver.

"Don't you dare touch someone who doesn't wish to be touched. When he said 'stop', you should have stopped." Ms. Lemon was shaking, her fists clenched.

I noticed that not once did she say that Ms. Fields should not have touched me because I was her fiancé. I walked up to her, and rested a hand on her elbow, offering a steady support.

"I'm sorry," Ms. Fields said. She swallowed hard, and added, "I got carried away."

"You won't forget again, will you?" Ms. Lemon said.

Ms. Fields shook her head, and scurried out of the room.

Ms. Lemon turned to me, and with shaky hands began to fix my tie. I took her small hands in mine, forgetting the tie and my ruffled hair and anything else.

"Felicity?" I asked softly.

She refused to look at me until I put a finger under her chin and encouraged her to look up. I asked the question with a tilt of my head.

"My sister," she replied.

I knew she was lying, but that did not matter. I embraced her as tenderly as I could, and she returned it.

"I'm sorry," I replied.

"I know, captain," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

I escorted Ms. Lemon to her room, and then I went in search of my sister. I knew that this was a scheme of hers, and I wanted to confront her while I was still angry. If I waited until the morning, then I would have considered all the reasons why a confrontation was unwise.

I found her in the garden, and it was clear from her expression that she had been expecting someone else. Her smiled melted into a frown, and she said, "What are you doing here?"

"What sort of game to you think you're playing at?" I demanded.

"Game?"

"Yes, sending for me and installing your friend, Ms. Fields, there in your place."

"I think she would be better for you, Arthur."

"Well, I think otherwise, and I want you to keep out of my affairs."

"I have never known you to refuse a helpless woman," she said.

"I cannot help her in this manner," I replied. "I am promised to another."

"The lipstick marks say otherwise," she countered, her smirk wide and vicious.

"Oh," I replied, pulling out my handkerchief. I wiped helplessly at my chin, but I am sure that I only made the matter worse. "She grabbed me, and would not let me go. Thankfully Felicity was most understanding."

Gladys frowned, and said, "She clearly doesn't love you, Arthur."

"What makes you say that?"

"She sees you in the arms of another woman, and she does not complain?"

I sighed. I knew that arguing any further would get me nowhere. "I cannot break my word, Gladys," I said. "I promised myself as a husband already, and I intend to abide by that promise."

"You don't care about me at all!" Gladys replied. "Father was right. You are stupid and lacking in the fiber that makes the Hastings men what they are."

The insult hurt, of course. I could still remember father's insinuations and his attempts to embed me with what he considered to be manly character.

"If that is so, then why do you want me to marry your friend?" I asked.

Before we could say anymore, John stepped forward from the path, his gaze questioning. I thought I saw someone behind him, but when I looked again, whoever they were had gone.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"Nothing," Gladys replied. "We were just discussing something."

"Sounded more like fighting to me. I say, did she slap you?"

"I…" I looked back and forth between them, and then said hurriedly, "It has been a long evening. I shall see you in the morning."

I nodded to them both, and departed. I heard John address my sister, but I did not wish to hear her response.

 

Since Poirot and I reached our intimate understanding, I had rarely been without a comforter during the rare occasions when I have suffered from nightmares. Although my nightmares were infrequent, they were quite vivid and horrible, being as they were based on real events rather than on imagined scenarios.

I knew that I was dreaming, but I could not stop the memories. In addition, the lack of companionship made me feel even more helpless. I could feel no comforting roundness against my back or in my arms, and no soft lips roused me from my terrors.

I was alone.

My father had a firm grip on my hair, and he was tugging me into his hunting room. Guns adorned the walls and the dark wooden cabinets. My mother sat, her hands meek in her lap, and watched us with fearful countenance. He jerked me up into a standing position, and then slapped me roughly, a piece of paper in his hand. It left a slight cut, whose sting was worse than the wound itself.

"What is this?" he said, throwing the paper at me. I fumbled to catch it as it floated to and fro.

"I-" It was a letter that I had been writing to a friend earlier in the afternoon, and some of its contents could not be interpreted as anything other a longing for earthly delights. "It's- it-"

"It's firth! Ugly, disgusting filth!" my father shouted at me, his deep voice reverberating throughout the room. "This is your mother's doing! She has made you weak through coddling."

"Mother has nothing to do with this!" I shouted before I could stop myself.

Mother's expression had been one of blankness, and I knew that she was imagining herself to be anywhere but here. My shout brought her back to this room, and her expression changed to one of terror.

"How dare you speak to me in such a manner," father said, coming closer to me. I backed away from him, and he shouted at me to stop. "A Hastings man never backs away from an argument!"

I stopped at his command, shaking despite myself. I had grown taller while I had been away at school, but I was still shorter than my father and less massive in size. Even when I had grown to my full height – well above his stature – my father seemed big to me.

"You weak little worm! You disgusting trollop!" I was horrified by his words and that he was saying them in front of a lady. He laughed at my expression, and said, "What's a matter? Too delicate a flower for such language?"

My lack of response angered him, and he flew into a rage. His punches struck my face, my stomach, my groin, and my abdomen. My only relief in these long minutes was that he did not look with such rage at my mother. When I fell to the ground, he repeated his words, punching and hitting, and finally aiming a well-placed stomp on my stomach which left me reeling in agony.

He stood over me, breathing heavily, his fists clenched and bleeding. I did not realize that he left the room until my mother sat down next to me on the floor, her fingers stroking my hair.

"Mother," I murmured, the pain growing sharper in my lower abdomen.

"I have rung for the doctor," she said softly.

I looked up at her. Her expression was pale but calm. I had seen this expression many times, but never after such an extreme emotional response from him.

"I am sorry that he did this to you, Arthur," she replied softly, "but I love him."

"Mum," I whispered, the pain in my stomach nothing compared to the agony in my heart.

 

I woke to find Poirot holding me, my face pressed to his neck. I was crying softly, as I had been then, an arm wrapped protectively around my stomach.

I could not understand how I had forgotten such a brutal attack, but I remembered it vividly now. My sister's words – or perhaps her strike – must have brought back the memory.

I listened to Poirot's worried voice, unable to respond at first, until eventually I whispered his name.

"Are you sick, _mon chou_?" Poirot asked, one of his hands resting on my stomach. I shook my head, and he said, "Un cauchemar?"

I nodded, slowly releasing my stomach until I could embrace him in return. "A bad one," I murmured. "Don't leave me," I added.

Poirot shushed me tenderly, and said, "Do not fear such an outcome, _mon cher_ Arthur."

I breaths gradually calmed, and I looked up at him. "I hope that I did not make much noise," I said softly, thinking about the others in the house.

"No, you made no noise. You retired to bed in a state of great anxiety, and I worried that this would happen."

Although I was still upset by my newly returned memories, I managed a smile at his words. "You know me quite well, Hercule."

Poirot smiled in return, and kissed me gently.

"I wish you could stay the night," I said, kissing him again.

We lingered, our lips brushing against one another's as we spoke. "I wish so as well," he replied. His fingers brushed my cheek as he said, "I have not been this anxious for your presence since the last trip to your ranch." Poirot referred to my disastrous last trip to the Argentine, during which my life had been endangered several times and Poirot mourned my death.

I tried to reassure him with a kiss, and then I pressed light kisses to his face as I pleaded with him. "Please stay, Hercule. We shan't make love, if you do not wish, but I need you here with me."

Poirot examined my face, and whatever he saw must have convinced him of my genuine need because he nodded. He removed his dressing gown, and then slid beneath the covers. I curled up next to him, and rested my head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Poirot said, one of his arms around my shoulders. He pressed a kiss to my brow.

I shuddered, and said, "Not now. Tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

Over breakfast I considered what I had remembered thanks to my nightmares. I could see the concerned looks of my friends, but I did not wish to involve them in my thoughts. I had to sort them out for myself.

When I was a lad, I accidentally found my sister's diary, and in it she detailed her friendship with some girl. At the time I did not understand what I was reading, and it quite slipped my mind until the present moment. I was punished for invading my sister's privacy, and the matter was closed. Later my sister enacted revenge when she discovered a letter I was writing to a fellow of my acquaintance. I had been a bit too free in my verse, and she delighted in handing me over to my father. My father flew into a rage, and beat me so savagely that my mother (who had not defended me at all) called the doctor afterward because she feared for my life.

Last night's nightmare exhumed these events; what I did not understand as a boy, I understood now. My sister had the same desires for her own sex that I did for mine, and the idea that we were so similar shocked me. I needed proof, however, before I could confront her. To be perfectly honest, I did not wish to confront her at all on the matter – it would be terribly embarrassing! – but I saw a way to dissuade her from her plans and to save my own marriage to Poirot.

I formulated a plan, and after careful thought I decided not to let Poirot know what I was doing. After so many years of being surprised by his denouements, I decided that it was time for one of my own.

I asked to speak with my sister and Margo in private, and I invited Poirot to be there. In addition, I asked Ms. Lemon to be present. She deserved to know what was happening as she had been so supportive and stalwart a friend as anyone I had ever met.

After dinner we assembled in a little room well away from the main guest rooms. I made sure that the doors and windows were closed and locked so that we would have no unwelcome listeners. When everyone was assembled, I stood.

"Thank you all for coming," I said. "As you are all aware, my sister has asked that I marry Ms. Margo Fields."

My sister rolled her eyes, and said, "Yes, Arthur, we are very much aware that you are already affianced, and so the matter is settled."

"But the matter is not settled," I replied. "For you see, I have no fiancé." I heard Poirot's breath catch, and I glance over to see the shock upon Ms. Lemon's face.

My sister's eyes widened, and she said, "What?"

"Ms. Lemon agreed to act as my fiancé so that I could convince you that I was not able to marry your friend. Poirot acted as chaperone so as to safeguard Ms. Lemon's reputation."

"You lied to me!" my sister said. I felt a familiar churning in my stomach, and for a moment I was that boy who feared his sister's mood swings.

"Yes," I said. "You would not accept the truth. I do not wish to marry your friend."

She raised her hand to strike me, and I said, "Go ahead, and hit me. You are your father's daughter."

She stopped abruptly, almost as if I had struck her instead. "I-," she hesitated, and then said, "I am sorry. My temper…"

"I know," I said, looking away. I glanced at Poirot, and the dawning horror on his face made me shudder and close my eyes. What would he think of me after this?

I opened my eyes, and once more regarded my sister. "Do you remember when I read your diary?" At my sister's nod, I continued, "You retaliated by giving my father a letter I had written to a young man. Do you remember what happened afterward?"

"Yes," Gladys said softly. "I did not mean for him to… react as he did."

"Probably not," I replied. "Somehow I had forgotten… his reaction and the events leading up to it, but your slap last night brought it all back, including what you had written in your own diary."

Gladys' jaw tightened, and she said, "You weren't supposed to see that!"

"I know," I replied calmly. "And at the time I didn't understand what your words meant. After father's rage, I was more cautious in my writings and in where I hide them. I learned from my mistake; however, you did not learn from yours."

As I spoke these final words, I pulled from my pocket her diary and several letters she had kept, tied with twine. Gladys cried out, and leapt for them. Both Poirot and Ms. Lemon rose to defend me, but Ms. Fields also took hold of Gladys by her shoulders before she could reach me.

"I learned a lot from these letters," I said serenely, although I felt anything but serene. I hated what I was about to do. "For instance, I learned that you intended for me to marry your lover, and then continue your dalliances behind my back – and behind your husband's as well."

"Arthur, please!" my sister said, and I grimaced when I saw the tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I love her. I had to protect her and myself."

"And you would cuckold your own brother? Do you love me so little?" I asked, for a moment feeling the sting of reciprocal tears. "Do I really fall so low in your regard?"

Tears fell down my sister's cheeks, and she wiped them away angrily. "This would have helped us both. It would have protected both you and me."

"I do not need protection, Gladys. You are the one who needed protection, and you decided to use me."

"Please," Ms. Fields said softly, and I felt sorry for her. I could see the shame in her expression.

"I do not blame you," I said to her. "I know this was my sister's plan."

"We love each other," she said, and I nodded.

"I know."

I felt Poirot's hand against my back, and I was grateful for his support. I steeled myself, and said, "I have no intention of using this evidence so long as Gladys leaves me out of her plans."

Gladys looked at me, and I could see the anger in her eyes. I shook my head, and said, "If you intend to retaliate, then consider who will lose more. I have only myself. I keep no diary, no letters." Of course, I kept Poirot's letters, but they were in a safe place far from prying eyes, and since most of them were written before our love affair began, they were completely harmless. "You have a husband and a son. I know that you no longer love your husband, but you do love your son. Think about losing him and what he would lose in return."

"This is blackmail," my sister exclaimed.

"Well, yes," I said, surprised. "Which is exactly what you tried to do to me."

"Gladys, please, let us end this," Ms. Fields said, tugging at Gladys' arm.

"I only asked for this one effort," Gladys said, tears falling down her cheeks once more.

"You have asked more than I am willing to give," I replied softly. "And I will not let you leave this room until you have given me your word that you will not retaliate against myself, Mr. Poirot, or Ms. Lemon."

Gladys thought for a few moments, and then nodded.

I shook my head. "I required your word."

Gladys looked at me with helpless fury. "I give you my word that I will not retaliate," she eventually replied, her bitterness obvious with each word.

She turned to leave the room, and I said, "I do not expect to see you again."

She gazed back at me, and said, "Good, because I won't return. I hate you."

She stormed from the room. Ms. Field gave me a contrite look, and then followed after her.

Ms. Lemon rested her hand on my upper arm, and said, "That was quite a reveal, captain. I believe you surprised even Mr. Poirot."

"Yes," I replied, trying to cheer myself up with my victory. "I did not wish to say anything because I was not sure if I would be successful. I only came up with the plan this morning."

"Do you think that she will keep her word, _mon brave_?" Poirot asked, taking my elbow in a gentle hand.

"I think so," I replied. "To her, appearances are everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think and what you'd like to see more of.


End file.
